On men and fish and bicycles
This is a piece from the vault that I wrote more than four years ago.
Without fail, whenever I take work to critique groups, there’s always at least one middle-aged man who comments on the neuroticism of the narrator.
It literally happened again last week.
And last week, as always, I wanted to say, “That’s me, I’m the narrator. We all know this is nonfiction, can we just call it what it is? I’m neurotic.”
It brought me great joy to see that this writing, four years ago, was no exception.
Looking through the feedback from my old critique group, sure enough, written in the notes was: “The piece has a lot of mention of anxiety, uncertainty, and neuroticism on the narrator’s part. There’s a high degree of neurotic self-introspection, second-guessing of the other and self.”
It’s reassuring to know that some things really do stay the same.
Date nights don’t always go as planned — sometimes you have to man up and eat two dinners cause you thought it was just a drinks thing.
And maybe halfway through the date you’ll regret saying yes to the guy you met on Craigslist when you were looking for a new place to live because you broke up with your partner of seven years.
While at the time a Craigslist date seemed like a great story to tell your future kids, he’s currently leaning back in his chair flicking his tongue against the inside of his cheek to make raindrop noises.
You still don’t know what Justin (or “Justin?…” as his contact in your phone reads) does for a living. When you questioned, he asked if he should grab his suit jacket from the car if you wanted to get all serious.
You have a hard time coming up with non-serious topics, so he fills the space by asking if you’d ever been in a power outage.
He then tells you not to chew your ice (which, to be fair, you probably shouldn’t have been doing, and especially not on a first date).
You cover his opinion on how the California drought is a hoax, and you’re pretty sure he’s not kidding.
Before you even order entrées, the evening feels like a waste of a face mask, and you’re regretting all the time spent making yourself look human in anticipation of your first first date in seven years.
You let Justin(?) kiss you at the dinner table even though it was pretty cringey and you’re embarrassed for the server. And again in the parking lot, partly because he paid for dinner, and partly because it’s nice to feel new lips.
You let his hands roam over your body as he invites you back to his. You decline, in the same manner that you politely decline a second date when he texts the next day.
You invite him out for comedy instead with an offer to be friends, and he says he’s not interested in being friends, but to let him know if your feelings change.
Sometimes you toy around with the idea of texting him, and then you remember the part of the conversation where he’d asked if you liked electrical outlets. And you think to yourself that maybe you aren’t actually that lonely after all.
Brandon hasn’t text you back, and it’s freaking you out.
Granted, you only went on one date, and it was pretty bad, but that definitely wasn’t because of you.
Please. You were charming and funny and pretended to be interested in the mechanics of nuclear power plants.
He asked your opinion on clean energy sources, and you genuinely thought it was a trick question, as you have no strong opinions about clean energy.
You really should get on that. On account of being a strong independent twenty-first century woman and all.
You’d met Brandon’s sister when you were staked out at a bar trying to bump into this other guy who you’d decided was your soulmate, and he may or may not have mentioned said bar as his local (this is Scott — he shows up a few paragraphs down, but stay with me here).
Brandon’s sister told you that you seemed really nice, and could she set you up with her brother who was also really nice, and just needed to meet someone nice.
You could tell he wasn’t going to be the one just from all the overwhelming niceness going on, but you agree, mainly because going on dates is something you feel like you should be doing.
“Brandon” — as he’s saved in your phone, because you share no inside jokes, or as it turns out, anything in common at all — suggests meeting on Tuesday at 5:40ish.
There’s nothing “ish” about 5:40. Or texting an hour before the date saying he’s now available at 5:30 if you want to meet then instead.
After the date, he does not text.
You’re telling yourself you weren’t Catholic enough for him. As in, you are not Catholic at all.
Because that could clearly be your only ever fault.
You don’t run into aforementioned Soulmate Scott during the staged drop-in at his local. Or repeated visits to the bar you met at — you dragged way, way too many friends to Frog and Peach that spring.
You mentally pen a children’s book called Looking for Scott about your borderline creepy search, which culminates with you walking into his work and asking him out.
You polled lots of friends for their opinions on this, and an overwhelming majority said not to do it.
You head into the outdoor supply store where Scott works and browse the shelves trying to busy yourself. You’re pretending to be enthralled by a rack of backpacking food, when Scott asks if he can help you find anything.
You both do a double take, recognizing the other person at the same time.
You’re more startled than he is, despite the fact that it was you who came in looking for him.
You make yourself ask him out, and he responds so casually that you can’t help but wonder if frazzled, deeply-exhausted women hunted him down on the regular.
Fast forward a few weeks and you two are on a third-date roadtrip, when Scott asks you to put your tunes on.
Unfortunately, you are still fresh off the breakup, and knee-deep in your Lizzo-on-loop era.
All you have downloaded is the HellaWella Strong Women Workout Playlist and the Breakup Workout Get Pissed Playlist. Your fallbacks include the Finding My Way Playlist and the Girl Power Country Playlist.
Scott asks you if you’re ok.
Shania Twain plays a part in the mutual decision to put his music back on again.
If it wasn’t apparent beforehand that you are so-completely-and-totally-very-much-absolutely-without-a-doubt-over-your-ex-thank-you-for-asking. It was after.
When it comes to pinpointing the moment of realization that Scott most likely wasn’t your soulmate, it’s a toss up between when he introduces you as his “lady friend,” and when he tells you that he’s not your keeper.
While you still don’t know what that even means, you do know that this isn’t going to go anywhere.
And while you don’t actually want a boyfriend right now, you are open to being offended if someone doesn't want to be your boyfriend.
You change his contact in your phone to “Scott Not My Keeper,” as a little Easter egg for future-you.
Kyle bailed. Again. Shocking. This time it’s because he doesn’t like the beer they serve at the bar the comedy gig is at. And apparently he “spaced” when you invited him yesterday. Which he waits to tell you until you text him a half hour before the standup starts.
You’re already perfectly shaven, like every lady bit imaginable. Including body parts you don’t even know the names of, but probably should get around to holding a hand mirror up there and checking out.
This is the fourth or fifth time he’s bailed on you, depending on how you define bail.
There was last Sunday when he text saying he’d stepped on a bee the day earlier, so your date was off.
And the Sunday before that when you were supposed to go hiking, but didn’t hear from him. He later blamed it on having a friend in town and being drunk most of the weekend.
And then there was that time you offered to take his dog out, as an excuse to see him. He said he’d join you, but bailed last minute because he forgot he had to go to the gym with his roommate. You take his dog for a run on your own in full makeup.
You change every other contact in your phone to “Not Kyle” in an attempt to save yourself from disappointment every time that he doesn’t message, again, and the text notification is just your mom asking how Facebook works.
You try to remind yourself that it’s for the better that he bailed tonight.
Because if he’d shown up, then you probably would have had sex, and most likely your IUD would have failed, and then you’d have his kid, and then you’d have to deal with Kyle standing you up for the rest of your life.
So while him bailing hurts a little bit now, it doesn’t hurt as much as pushing his child out of your vagina in nine months would.
The longer you’re single, the more variations of “Dont Pick Up” and “DONT PICK UP!!!” get added to your phone.
Then there’s the classic “She Wants To Sell You A Cruise Don’t Pick Up” lady (ok, she might not be looking to get laid, but she can be really convincing).
You can’t help but think that maybe one day you’ll meet someone worth cleaning up your contact list for.
In the meantime, your phone continues to fill up with “Frank from Food4Less,” “Nick from Next Door,” and “Toby from Tinder.” Because apparently you’ve got a bit of a thing for men with alliteration.